A Portrait of Inequality
by wujy
Summary: Hermione, a social worker in the United States, meets Draco, a museum curator one evening in a chance encounter. Flags: Muggle!AU, American!Hermione


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I affiliated with it in any way.

Note: Merry Christmas, Kristie.

Flags: Muggle!AU, American!Hermione, Skewed!Timeline, Dramione

* * *

><p>A Portrait of Inequality<p>

* * *

><p>The museum had been closed for over an hour. The corridors were empty except for the occasional roaming security guard, and the lights were all out save one. Two floors below ground level, attached to a corridor that led directly to the employee parking garage, a thin line of light glowed beneath a plain office door. A thin placard on the door read:<p>

_Draco Malfoy_

_Senior Curator_

It wasn't unusual for Draco to be working past closing, nor in fact for him to work late into the night, especially when a new exhibit had been acquired for display as one had been only last week. It was, however, _quite_ unusual for the sounds of angry conversation to fill the corridor outside and carry down the hall to the security station. The guard on watch tonight, a thin woman with pale brown hair, couldn't make out _what_ Draco was saying, but she knew enough to recognize that he wasn't happy about something. Preferring to mind her own business, she returned her attention to the romance novel in front of her, and made a mental note not to draw his attention for the next couple of days or so.

"I have got _sixteen_ crates of T'ang Dynsty sculptures and ornaments that need to be placed for an exhibit opening in_ less than two weeks_," Draco shouted into his phone, "and absolutely _NO ONE_ to pack up the_ Agamemnon to Alexander_ exhibition and return it to the National Hellenic Museum! I cannot _possibly_ do this all on my own, and you damn well knew that when you shipped it to us. I don't care if you have to drag them from their beds and force them at _gunpoint_! You get me six—not four, not five, but _six!_—experienced fine art shipping assistants or I swear to you that I shall ensure that every museum in the _state_ switches to Navis Pack & Ship. _Do I make myself entirely clear_?!"

The small office fell into momentary silence while Draco listened to the timid voice on the other end of the line. "_Superb_," he spat, his tone laced with venom. "We begin at six tomorrow morning and I _don't_ accept tardiness."

Draco had to force himself not to slam the phone receiver down onto its base. Trembling with the force of his own rage at the incompetence of the service industry, he nestled it into the cradle and sat down in his comfortable office chair. He didn't remember standing up in the first place, but he must have done, and the fading steam imprint his warm hand had left on the polished surface of his desk told him just how high up his blood pressure had gone.

Draco took in a deep breath and released it slowly, kneading at his brow with one hand

"Imbeciles," he said to himself. "I'm surrounded by them."

* * *

><p>On the outside, the house was a bit run down and shabby, but Hermione had made several trips to visit now, and she knew that, not only was the house perfectly up to code, but the inside would be spotless and cozy. Three months ago, it had been falling apart and unkempt, but Hermione had devoted a substantial amount of time working with the family who lived there to bring it back to a state that would satisfy CPS.<p>

Molly, the matron of the house, was already standing in the doorway, waiting for Hermione with a smile on her face despite the nasty chill in the air.

"Good morning, Hermione, dear," Molly greeted the other woman with a warm hug, her cheeks pink from the icy wind.

"It's good to see you, Molly," Hermione said, returning the hug and stepping into the house.

Hermione walked into the living room and set her plain briefcase on Molly's coffee table, removing her coat and draping it over the back of the sofa. "How are Ginny and the boys?" she asked.

"Oh, good, good," Molly said, sitting in a chair across from the sofa. Despite being rolled up past her elbows, the sleeves of Molly's shirt were a little damp from the dishes she had been doing before Hermione had arrived. "Much quieter since Bill and Charlie left for school last week. Ginny's staying over with a friend tonight, and I hardly see Percy when he's home. Since they skipped him up another grade, he's been poring over college brochures nonstop."

"He would be," Hermione said with a knowing smile. "He's still, what? Two years from graduation now?"

Molly nodded. "I think he's hoping to trim it down the three semesters instead of four," she said with a small, proud smile.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know where he gets the stamina," she said, laughing a little.

A stillness passed between the two women, and Molly knew the question that would come next; Hermione knew she knew and let Molly think about it for a moment before she asked.

"How is Arthur coping?"

Knowing it was coming didn't seem to lessen the blow. The question still hit Molly like a slap in the face. She sniffed discretely before answering.

"Back to work," she answered, her voice straining at the edges. "It's only freelance work, so he spends most nights in the garage, but he's back working, finally, which is a step in the right direction, I think." She hesitates, and Hermione can tell how hard this is. "He still gets that look once in a while when he walks into a room, like he's forgotten what he came in there for, but the light's coming back in his eyes. I can tell. Slowly, but surely."

Hermione smiled gently and knelt down in front of Molly's chair, grasping the woman's hand in hers. "Good. I'm glad. What happened wasn't his fault, and it wasn't the twins' fault. It's best to embrace that so that the healing can begin."

Molly nodded solemnly and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from the box on the nearby end table.

"How _are_ the twins?" Hermione ventured, taking the opportunity to change the subject.

Molly's breathing wavered for a moment as she fought back the tears. "Mr. Lupin tells me that George is progressing, but Fred is still withdrawn. He wants to start seeing them separately."

"He's a brilliant therapist, Molly," Hermione said, trying to put her mind at ease. "If he thinks that's best for them, then I'd let him try."

Molly nodded, reaching for another tissue. Hermione gripped her hand firmly, reassuringly. "Losing a child is devastating to a family," she told her solidly. "It can tear people apart, Molly. Arthur feels responsible, and so does Fred, but _you_ are the strongest person I have ever known. You are the glue that holds this family together, and you have the strength to get them through this. Never forget that."

* * *

><p>The woman standing before the van Eyck painting was stunning. She had dark hair flowing down her back and over one shoulder while her pale, gray eyes studied the couple in the portrait. Draco was sitting—as he did most days—on a simple bench in the independent viewing room, watching to see which pieces drew attention and which ones went unnoticed. It was his version of quality control. There were a number of great works of beauty that were overlooked by simple people, to Draco's chagrin, but it was his job to make sure the museum continued to attract business. If a piece was constantly ignored and it wasn't part of a collection, it didn't last long in his museum.<p>

The one exception to this rule was the van Eyck painting in question, _The Arnolfini Portrait._ It drew the attention of almost no one, but Draco had never been able to convince himself to release the rights to another museum. There was something about it—something sad and honest—that wouldn't let him.

Because of this, Draco always noticed when it caught someone's eye for longer than a single glance, and this woman had been staring at it for nearly three minutes. Draco removed his reading glasses and tucked them into the front pocket of his neat suit jacket. He didn't stand so much as gracefully arrange himself into onto his feet before walking over to her.

"Are you an admirer of Jan van Eyck?" Draco asked, stepping into place next to her in front of the painting. Her scent was intoxicating, and despite having just placed his glasses into his front pocket, Draco removed them, wiping them with a handkerchief he pulled from the same pocket. It was a gesture that those who knew Draco would call his "move". It was a casual maneuver to draw attention to his long, slender hands as they worked the cloth over the lens. That, in combination with his smart, English accent had a high success rate in persuading young, American ladies.

Without looking at the woman directly, Draco placed his glasses back on his nose, casually fitting his hands into his pockets in a way that made his button-up stretch against his chest.

She noticed, but tried to pretend that she didn't.

"Jan van Eyck? Is that her?" the woman asked, pointing to the figure on the right side of the portrait. "The pregnant woman in the painting?"

_Ah_, Draco thought, disappointed instantly. _She's an idiot._

Draco sighed and walked away without another word, leaving a very confused and put-out young woman behind him.

* * *

><p>"So, you're a social worker."<p>

It hadn't really been a question, but Hermione answered it anyway. "Yes," she said. "I've been with Child Protective Services going on four years now."

The silence that followed was awkward. Hermione had bothered to dress up for her blind date, which she now realized had been a mistake almost as terrible as the mistake she'd made in agreeing to go on the damn thing in the first place. Her hair was swept up off her shoulders and she was wearing a sleeveless dress with a modest cut. Her date was wearing a wrinkled jacket with an unmatched tie, and his hair had been unceremoniously slicked down to his scalp.

"I don't think my mother told me. What was it you do?" Hermione asked to break the silence while they waited for their food.

He cleared his throat, which he seemed to do every few seconds; it was beginning to give Hermione a facial tic. "I'm a podiatrist," he said.

_Even his voice is dull_, Hermione thought to herself while maintaining her pleasant smile. "I bet... that's _interesting_," she said to be polite.

He cleared his throat again and Hermione's right eye twitched involuntarily. She hid it by pretending to scratch her forehead in what she hoped appeared to be a thoughtful manner.

"It can be," he said with no particular inflection. He offered no further explanation, and Hermione didn't press him for any.

_There has to be a better way to please my mother_, Hermione thought to herself. _Just... not this. Anything but this._

Unable to take another second more, Hermione discretely unzipped her hand bag in her lap and felt around for her lipstick. She popped the top off as quietly as she could with one hand, ran her thumb over the pinkish lipstick, and replaced the cap. Under the guise of perusing the wine menu, she ran her thumb over her bottom lip and just over the edge, smearing pink outside her lipliner.

"Hmm," she intoned, looking up at the man across from her. "Do you know much about wines?" she asked him as though nothing were amiss. "I never know what which wine will go best with which entrée."

She smiled and he stared at the lipstick smudge on her face for a moment without answering. Feigning confusion, Hermione asked, "Everything all right?"

He cleared his throat and Hermione had to fight the urge to smack him.

Pointing to his own mouth, he said, "You just... Right there, you have... You have some, uh... lipstick."

Hermione pulled a compact out of her purse to look at herself in the mirror. "Oh, so I do," she said. "How embarrassing. That's what I get for not using a gloss," she joked, standing. "Excuse me for a moment, won't you?"

Taking her purse with her, she retrieved her coat from the checker and left the restaurant.

* * *

><p>Draco cleared his throat, and the security guard on watch flinched and dropped her romance novel onto the floor. She swiveled to face him in her chair, turning red and kicking the book further under the desk even though she was sure he had caught her reading it.<p>

"Something I can do, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, smiling uncomfortably.

"It's a half hour until close," he said, pretending he hadn't noticed her slacking off. "If there are no patrons, close up early. We're not likely to get any more on a Wednesday night."

"Uh, sure," she said, turning to the monitors on the desk behind her. She clicked through several of the security cameras quickly. "Looks like there's just one more," she said, tapping a screen with one finger. The monitor showed a woman who was far too dressed up for an evening in a museum.

"In one of the non-collection rooms. Independent works," the guard said, turning back toward Draco. "When she's gone I—"

She stopped abruptly; Draco was gone. Frowning, she picked her book up from the floor and resumed her reading, wondering how long she'd been talking to herself.

Draco, for his part, was already halfway to the viewing room by the time the security guard had noticed his absence. He'd seen the woman on the screen and realized where she was instantly. It was, after all, the room that he most frequently visited himself. An odd feeling of curiosity gripped him that he couldn't explain, and before he knew it, he found himself standing in the corridor where it connected with the room.

The two-dimensional image of this woman on the security footage did he no justice. Her long, brown hair was clipped to the crown of her head loosely, falling in waves that framed her face gently. The gown she was wearing wasn't meant to go unseen in an empty museum. It was a pale blue number with a portrait-cut neckline and it fit like it was made for her. She wore no jewelry, and very little make-up, and she was looking at _The Arnolfini Portrait_.

"Hello," he said, and she whipped around to face him. There was a faint spot of pink at the corner of her mouth where he could tell her make-up had smudged and been hastily fixed. God help him, it was kind of cute.

She smiled at him, her eyes glancing toward his security badge before returning to his face. "Sorry," she said. "Are you closing?"

"Momentarily," he acknowledged, walking toward her. "No rush."

He removed his glasses and waved them in the direction of the portrait she had been admiring. "Do you know van Eyck?" he asked her.

She looked back to the painting, shaking her head. "Not specifically," she said, "but his colors are stunning."

Draco's interest was piqued, so he continued to listen.

"Why does he hold her right hand with his left, I wonder," she said out loud, not really to Draco but more to herself. "A morganatic marriage, perhaps."

"Interesting theory," Draco said, his tone leading.

"Well, if they were of a different social status—I mean, in that period, it was uncommon, but not impossible—well, then they would have had a left-handed marriage, wouldn't they? A marriage specifically to recognize the fact that she's lower class, it's... Well, it's..."

She seemed unable to find the words to describe what she thought about the painting, and Draco took the opportunity created by her silence to slip in next to her before the portrait. She had, without prompting, deduced a number of things about the painting that were matters of constant debate in the greater art community, and he was now devastatingly curious to hear more.

She frowned suddenly, her eyebrows drawing down in a small scowl. The change in her mood was so sudden that Draco was caught by surprise by it.

"It's elitist and antiquated," she finished in a decisively dismissive tone. "Thank god those times are over! I mean, what self-respecting woman today would allow herself to be put on display for the world to see as a low-class bride being _graciously _hoisted up by a wealthy husband? And what sort of man would belittle the woman he cleared cared for enough to marry—likely despite the wishes of his family, no doubt—to immortalize _and emphasize _on canvas the fact that he was higher born than she was? What a dick!"

Draco got the feeling that she wasn't merely upset by the painting, but he didn't get his chance to say so as she continued to rant.

"I mean, it's not a person's fault if they're born without money or a respected family name," she carried on, gesturing a little wildly to the portrait as though accusing it of some wrongdoing. "Everyone only tries to get by the best they can with the circumstances they're given. It isn't right to isolate what the upper class sees as flaws or short-comings and point them out to the world, saying, 'Look, this is why we're better. This is why they'll never be good enough.' It's not a portrait of a marriage," she envenomed. "It's a portrait of inequality!"

When it seemed as though she had run out of things to shout about, she looked around at Draco, who was stared at her, lips parted slightly. Who _was_ this mad, beautiful woman?

Hermione blushed, and her mouth dropped open as she realized that she had just been yelling at a perfect stranger. "I—I am so sorry," she stammered. "I... work in social services," she tells him by way of an explanation. "There's this case I've been working on that... Well, that's not important," she interrupted herself. "It's just been a long, uphill struggle against the system. I didn't mean to... cause a scene."

Draco gave her a sort of crooked smile and gestured around the room. "No scene caused," he assured her. "You and I are the only ones here."

Hermione gave him a grateful smile. "Well, I should probably be going," she said. "Let you close up."

It was out of Draco's mouth before he had time to think about it. "I was just about to catch a cab myself," he said. "If we're going the same way, perhaps we can ride together."

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. "You're sure?" she asked. "You never know when I could start ranting about social inequality," she joked. "I'm a monster, really. Can't be stopped."

Draco just smiled at her and offered his arm, choosing his words deliberately and very carefully.. "There are worse things I can think of than being caught in close quarters with an intelligent, opinionated young woman, especially one who happens to have the most beautiful, intense, brown eyes I have ever seen."

Hermione was stunned into silence by the sudden compliment, and she felt color creeping into her cheeks. "Well, I... I suppose that works for you a lot, does it?" she asked in a small voice, gesturing at him with her handbag. "The whole, suave, well-spoken—" she swallowed back her nerves— "i-irresistibly-charming... _thing_ you have going for you?"

Draco actually grinned, putting his arm back down to his side. "Yes, actually," he said, finding her forwardness amusing and intriguing. "Did it not work on you?"

Hermione thought about her answer for a moment, reluctant to tell him that it had worked perfectly well on her, not to mention the effect his smile was having on the structural integrity of her knees. Instead, she said, "I'm going downtown, toward Jefferson."

Draco's grin turned back to his discrete smile. "You're on my way," he confirmed, and he offered his arm again.

This time, she took it.


End file.
